Joan Hess - Dear Miss Demeanor

From the Falcon Crier , October 29

Dear Miss Demeanor,

Do you think it’s undignified for juniors to throw eggs and toilet paper at houses on Halloween and basically act like children? I think it’s immature, gross and utterly disgusting.

Dear Reader,

Miss Demeanor senses an underlying trepidation in your letter. She wonders if you’re worded that no one will throw an egg at you or decorate your lawn with white steamers. Have no fear:

Miss Demeanor has your address.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

I’m a sophomore with a terrible problem. You see, this boy wants me to go steady, but we both have braces. I read somewhere that the braces can get locked. I would absolutely die if that happened.

Dear Reader,

Miss Demeanor wonders where in the annals of history going steady got locked with kissing. Sophomores have no business kissing, anyway. Take advantage of your lowly status to perfect hand-shaking and meaningful looks. Then, Miss Demeanor suggests that you search for a boy whose father is an orthodontist, for financial as well as utilitarian concerns.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

How’s this for a trick-or-treat surprise? I call somebody’s wife and tell her that her husband has a standing reservation at the Xanadu Motel every Thursday afternoon. Do you think she’d get a kick out of that?

Dear Reader,

Although Miss Demeanor promised to answer every letter in her box she must admit this motel business is becoming a bit tedious. This is clearly adult stuff. The only person who’s getting a kick out of it is you, Reader. If you call somebody’s wife, you’re likely to get another kick-in the rear. Can we just drop it, please?

The afternoon did not skip by; it trudged in lead-lined snowshoes. At the end of the last period, the students were sent away. Several hundred of them found a reason to parade down the basement hallway, all very casual and distracted by meaningful inner dialogue. Adolescents respond to violence much the same way moths do to a candle, or iron filings to a magnet. It is not endearing.

We were not sent away. Peter set up shop in the lounge at the formica table, and each of us was called in to make a statement. My name was the last on his list, which fooled me not at all, and it was almost four o’clock before I was beckoned into his parlor.

I glanced at the chalked silhouette on the carpet and the circular stain of dampness. “Did you arrive at any brilliant deductions in the last four hours? I would have offered suggestions, but I was having too much fun in that dusty room counting flowers on the wall and cracks in the ceiling.”

He grinned at me. His curly black hair and three-piece suit gave him the appearance of either an executive or a Mafia hit man. He’s clearly a New Yorker, from the jutting nose to the jarring accent, but I had grown accustomed to his face, among other things. He has talents that are best left unspecified. At the moment, we were lovers, although it was much like making goulash with dynamite and nitroglycerine. Too much personality, and usually not in tune. However, we did certain things very well, and legal entwining was occasionally discussed. I was the one who shied away. I have tried marriage; the results were not distasteful, but I have learned to enjoy my unwedded solitude.

“I deduced,” Peter said wryly, “that this place rivals any afternoon soap opera for intrigues, gossip, and back-stabbing, to put it mildly. Do these people actually teach?”

“It does boggle the mind, doesn’t it?” I said, sitting on the mauve-and-green monster. “I’ve felt as if I had been airlifted into Peyton Place the last two days. What have you learned thus far?”

“This is an official investigation, Claire,” he said. The grin inverted itself into a frown. “I know that you haven’t paid any attention to that niggling little detail in the past, but this time I want you to stay out of it.”

“As long as Miss Parchester is out of it,” I said with a lofty expression. It never failed to irritate him.

“Emily Parchester is very much in it, for the moment. She did sneak into the building with a jar of peach compote, knowing that Weiss was especially fond of it. She, on the other hand, was not at all fond of him. The compote was laced with cyanide, possibly from inception. It’s not easy to overlook the coincidence, Claire.”

“It seems fairly easy to jump to conclusions, however. If you’d ever met her, you’d realize she’s a harmless little old lady, not some character out of Arsenic and Old Lace. She’s going to paint watercolors and ride in buses when she retires, for God’s sake.”

“Let’s hope she hasn’t already climbed aboard, then, since we don’t seem able to find her. The uniformed officers have questioned her neighbors, but no one claims to have seen her since yesterday evening, when she discretely put a sack of liquor bottles in a garbage can. A large sack. We would very much like to discuss her recipe for peach compote.”

“The entire Farberville police force can’t find one old lady?” I laughed merrily. “Perhaps she’s gone underground to escape the dragnet.” I watch old shows on television when I can’t sleep. Very old shows, I suspect, since all the characters are either black, white, or gray.

“We’ll find her,” he said, unamused by my cleverness. “We should have a report from the medical examiner’s office within twenty-four hours, but we’re operating on the premise that the poison was in the damned yellow goop. It reeked of bitter almonds, as did Weiss’s mouth. The symptoms were consistent with cyanide poisoning: nausea, cramps, mental confusion, and death within minutes. It’s a painful poison, but it is reasonably easy to get one’s hands on… and inexpensive for someone on a tight budget.”

“You don’t need to question her-just hook her up to the electric chair and throw the switch! You obviously think she’s the culprit, simply because she brought the compote to school. It was sitting in the kitchenette for half an hour. Anyone could have added the cyanide.”

“That’s what we’ll investigate. Now, I need a full statement from you so that we can get out of this place before dark.”

A minion named Jorgeson appeared to write down my words of wisdom. I reiterated my movements for the last two days, from homeroom to sixth period. Without a whimper, I might add. Jorgeson rewarded my conciseness with a smile, I signed the silly thing, and we left the building together.

Always a gentleman, Peter walked me to my car. “I guess I can’t take you to see The Massachusetts Asparagus Massacre at the drive-in tonight. After a break for hamburgers, we’re going to search the entire building for anything with cyanide in it. I suspect we’ll still be there when the homeroom bell rings Monday morning.”

“I presumed you’d be on a stakeout at Miss Parchester’s house.” I gazed up with a sweet smile. “Carpe diem, Peter.”

I drove out of the parking lot in a skimpy mist of dust, since I valued my shocks more than my desire for a grand exit. When I arrived home, I found Caron and Inez on the sofa, salivating for details.

“Oh, Mother,” Caron sighed, “were you really there at the Fateful Moment? Did he clutch his throat and accuse Miss Parchester?”

Inez clutched her throat. “My sister was in Typing 11 when Miss Hart came in to break the ghastly news to Cheryl Anne. It was awful, Mrs. Malloy. Cheryl Anne turned white. Miss Hart was white, too, and crying, then all the girls started crying. None of them could finish the time test. Cheryl Anne had to go to the nurse’s office to lie down.”

“Did they find Miss Parchester?” Caron demanded. “Did she admit that she nursed a Secret Hatred of Mr. Weiss?”